


Ouch

by Weresnake



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: A bit of gore, Gen, Sickfic, Suicidal Ideation, callout post: op only has a vague recollection of what happened in the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 01:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20666951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weresnake/pseuds/Weresnake
Summary: Barry wakes up with an infected wound and a short list of options. However, the best thing about hitting rock bottom is knowing that the only direction out, is up.





	Ouch

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guess i'm new here and figured i'd make a fic because I enjoy the show so much.

Barry has had not felt this crushing weight steeped in his body since Cleveland. Unlike the cold and void feeling that caged him to his room during those long, depressing nights, he was feeling a suffocating warmth that pinned him to the mattress. With the now rising fever, it only sparked a low lying anxiety and misery that had followed him from the baking sun of Afghanistan to this wretched present.  
Crawling out gradually, he noticed the cause of his condition in the form of many nerves in his leg crying out at once joined by his sharp hiss of pain. Looking down, while feeling like a chore to stay standing as he swayed, rewarded him with a clear view of oozing scarlet and white. Just on the swell of his thigh was a simple bullet hole no bigger then a penny with the telltale signs of an infection making his muscle burn and body ache. The bright red lines of blood trickling down contrasts greatly with the ashy skin bordering the punctured flesh. Puss and blood both mixed like slippery oil paints as he finally gives in to gravity by falling back onto the edge of the bed with a groan. 

Raking a hand through his hair, he dug through memories of the night before and recalled flashes of a gun fight sparked by the loud cracking of shots kicking back and forth. Him, being a moron, pushed Hank out of the way, and in return for saving the bastards life felt a sharp bullet puncture him there instead. 

A bone white snarl flashes in the dim room as he berates himself for saving him in the moment.

He rifles through the small box and curses himself for the unpreparedness. When he bought the thing, his former self's intent was a meager solution to smaller problems like a paper cut. That Barry, before everything wanted to bitterly remain dying if the situation presented himself. The distasteful root being the suicidal ideation that was present as plain as the snoopy patterned bandaids at the bottom of the plastic box. Unlike his self of the past, he had higher hopes of at least living long enough to shoot Fuches until the monster was red mush.  
Or until his gun ran out and Barry would then gladly switch to the alternative of beating him to death with the empty gun as simple remedy.

A trip to the hospital for the care he needed was an immediate, ‘no.’  
One second in there meant forfeiting his hunt for Fuches. 

Sally was a promising option but his heart ached at limping to her door, begging for- 

for what? What could she, just an average person, do for him? Not to mention the guilt of explaining with murky context wasn’t appealing in the slightest. Lying so pitifully would lead to her calling paramedics thinking he’s spiraled into a dizzying level of shock and needs professional help.  
Maybe, an optimistic voice wondered out loud in his skull, if he let the wound steeped to a crossroad of near death but still alive enough to make it to her, he could confess his love on gasps counting down to his tragic death in her frail arms as everything fades to credits.

"Executive producer Dicke Wolf" 

Funny, Barry thought. He recognized that sing song tune from when he bought the shitty first-aid kit he cursed just a minute ago.  
Rolling over, he looks to his gun laying on the covers. Would Hank help? ‘Scratch your back so you can scratch mine?’ He despised the thought as he felt his head pounding grow more prominent. Receiving help from the coy sphinx cat that was the shitty cohort he worked (against his better desire) with meant putting up with more of his shit. Barrys blood roiled at the thought of the bastards pointy, grin fixed no better than on the cat that ate the canary.

Canary? Or was it Chickadee... He pressed his forehead against the cool pillow for relief with a grumble and coiled up tighter into himself. 

With gross nude cats and loud birds dancing around the forefront of his mind, he finally clenches his jaw and reaches for his phone to dial.  
It ringed, and ringed, and ringed.... And ringed, then a voice filled the room. 

“Helloooo! You have reached the excellent private number of Hank. Due to some circumstances, I am either on vacation-“ and then, Barrys fuzzy mind could almost hear the visual wink from just the recording. “Or on Vacation. Please leave a message after the beep okay? Byee.” 

Then a beep. Barry hesitates to speak up to the phone. His huff of hot breath punctuating each beat of silence hanging midair. 

“H-” Eyes jam shut as more regret poured in.  
“Hank, I got shot while saving your ass and- and this wound is killing me.” He licks his parched lips and rises himself to a more dignified posture. 

“If you want to return the favor and help me out, come to where I currently am and I will,” his mind wandered to Fuches. He could surrender himself in a different, more satisfactory ways than dying, his mind decides. 

“I will put an end to this mess, and maybe even just be your permanent kill switch if things go well enough. No questions asked, no more games, no more resisting.”  
He felt hot tears race down his cheeks at the plea.

“I’ll just kill who I’m told to, when I’m told.” Came out shakily.

The call ends, message clearly sent. His hand goes limp. If this works, he gets what he wants in killing Fuches and reach that bittersweet conclusion he needs. Then after that, he could kiss everything he worked so hard on running from good-bye. Just the same numbness as the beginning with an even more annoying employer to berate him. 

He cradled his head to hold back a choked sob. None of this running away didn’t even matter in the end, did it? Some dying part of Barry still hoped.


End file.
